


London's Original Loudly Outstanding Music Group

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Band Fic, Claustrophobia, Dessa continues to be too much of an inspiration for me, F/F, Fluff, but dont worry everyone's fine, mainly azu and sasha minimal the others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 10:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18547687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: In which Azu is a good sister, Sasha fills some very shiny shoes, and everyone else tries to get their fiddler a date.





	London's Original Loudly Outstanding Music Group

**Author's Note:**

  * For [midnightmew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightmew/gifts).



> uhhhhhhh i have no excuses for this. mostly i just wanted to write lyrics for some of the more memorable bits in the podcast, and then that kinda... Spiralled. also, the group is very much like a lower-key mechanisms, bc ive been listening to the mechanisms... nonstop? only occasionally punctuated by dessa. so. yeah. enjoy the shitshow, i suppose! Working Title: _this is for u mew_

Azu does her best to be a good sister. She stays optimistic, she does her chores, she gently (and occasionally not-so-gently) reminds her younger siblings to do theirs. But right now, surrounded by Emeka and his band’s very loud music, she wishes she had been a little more selfish. It’s open mic Friday at his favourite café, and even though she didn’t want to go, Azu had volunteered to drive him there. (Emeka, for all he fronts as big and tough, is absolutely _terrified_ of driving. Azu doesn’t blame him, though she finds it nerve-wracking for different reasons. As long as the windows are rolled down, Azu is fine. The dark doesn’t scare her like it scares her brother.) The song ends with one last low note from the lead singer and Emeka grins, panting hard, drumsticks raised high above his head. The café fills with applause and the occasional whoop, and they start to unpack, lugging their instruments offstage.

Azu raises a hand to wave her little brother over (she found a table near the front) but he holds up a hand in the universal symbol of, _no thanks._ He trudges over to the back with all of his friends, chatting about the set and clapping each other on the backs. Azu frowns. It’s alright, though, Emeka doesn’t get much time to talk with his friends, and Azu doesn’t really know them, so it’s probably for the best that they don’t all sit together.

“Uh,” says a voice onstage, and Azu turns to look. A young woman stands in front of the microphone, shifting from foot to foot, her spiky leather jacket catching the pale lighting and refracting it in a million silver sparkles across the ceiling. Her face seems too-thin, bleached white under the soft lighting. She’s very handsome, and that thought is only reinforced when she blows a lock of short black hair out of her face. In her left hand is a violin, and she’s tapping nervously on her leg with the bow. Azu takes a second to look at the rest of the band. 

There’s a drummer, sitting on a pillow that he’s clearly placed on top of the chair that’s already pushed to its highest. He’s even darker skinned than Azu, almost jet black, and he looks about ready to vibrate out of his skin with energy. He’s dressed in a sage-green hoodie and an excess of silver jewellery. He’s chewing on his necklace, which is not silver, and Azu’s pretty sure she recognises the chunky design as a stim toy, like the one her cousin has.

The bassist wears a long, navy blue trench coat, and the shadows it casts nearly obscures the glint of silver between the cuff of his left trouser leg and his shoe. His sleeves are rolled up, and Azu can just make out the edges of a tattoo. Of feathers..? Or, maybe sea-foam? His bass has a copy of that one Japanese print of a wave on it, so something ocean-based wouldn’t be too far-fetched. 

The guitarist, easily the best-dressed member, tunes his dark purple guitar carefully. It’s completely at odds with his light green button-down shirt, (which matches the drummer’s hoodie) but nearly the exact same shade as his shoes. The light sparks off of him, and Azu smiles when she notices that he’s wearing silver eyeliner. It’s always nice, seeing someone going against the norm for these things.

The violinist speaks again, “Alright, guys. Uh, Bertie’s sick with something—” Azu is close enough to hear the bassist says something disparaging, but not close enough to hear what— “yeah, probably, but Hamid’d kill me if I said that real loud to a whole room.” The bassist snorts and the guitarist glares at them both. He’s probably Hamid, then. “Uh, yeah, so we’re not doing any of his songs tonight. We’re gonna do my song! That I can sing! ‘Cause I _have_ sung it, a lot, just? Mostly alone? Like, quietly. On my bike. When no one can hear me. And now I’m gonna sing it alone, in front of you lot! Which is fine!” Azu briefly wishes she could hug the woman to calm her down. 

The drummer taps his drumsticks together in the classic _‘a-one, a-two, a-one two three four!’_ but no one actually starts playing. The violinist coughs, rolls her shoulders back, and shoots him a dirty look. “S’not even you that starts it,” she grumbles quietly, but the microphone catches it. The drummer sticks his tongue out at her. “Alright. Yeah. Uh, we’re the Rangers – we’re still working on the name – and this is Fire Drills.”

And then the guitar starts to play, Hamid picking over the strings quickly with long nails. And then the drummer comes in suddenly, slamming down his drumsticks at the same time as the bassist starts strumming. And then the violinist doesn’t _sing,_ exactly, it’s more of a lyrical recitation, like slam poetry, with her eyes shut tightly and her hands white around her bow and the neck of her violin. _“Got confused,”_ she says, strong with quiet wrath, _“if it was from or to that we were running.”_

Azu is entranced.

The chorus is softer, more melodic, and the violinist steps away from the mic for that. Hamid leans into his own microphone, sings, _“You can count my ribs,”_ and his voice is more bitter, higher than the violinist’s and more suited to the sad words. The violinist adjusts her instrument, sets it against her chin.

The second verse, her eyes are open, and the words are harsher, and the violin croons low notes that Azu hums along with, deep in the back of her throat.

The drummer claps to the rhythm, drumsticks carefully fixed in his hands so as not to clatter, and he makes direct eye contact with Azu. _Come on,_ the look in his eyes says, _clap with me._ Azu does. No one else joins in because she’s loud enough for it to carry throughout the room. The drummer beams at her, and after two more cycles of clapping, he goes back to his normal drumming.

 _“What that is,”_ spits the violinist, eyes fixed fiercely somewhere behind Azu, _“is just a life of running fire drills.”_

The song ends too quickly. Azu doesn’t applaud the loudest, if only because the rest of the café is just as captivated as she is. The violinist smiles, and for half a second Azu’s lungs stop working. “Cheers,” she says into the mic, sounding more than a little embarrassed. Hamid smiles, looking breathless, out at the audience. The drummer slips off of his seat, snatching the pillow and sticking his chewable necklace back between his teeth. The bassist stomps offstage quickly, and the violinist follows just as fast.

A tall, heavyset man in a dark green jumper steps up to the microphone with a small notebook in his hands, but Azu pays him no mind. She stands up as unobtrusively as she can and makes her way over to the table that the Rangers are sitting at. “It’s only six syllables though,” the drummer says thoughtfully, “as opposed to—” he counts on his fingers— “Ran-gers we’re still wor-king on the name. Nine. So, it’s three syllables shorter!”

“Thanks, we can all do basic maths here, Grizzop,” the violinist says. Grizzop (Grizzop? did Azu mishear?) looks at her dubiously, spinning one of his silver rings around. (He notices Azu out of the corner of his eye, and smiles at her. She smiles back, a bit confusedly.) The violinist ignores him, instead turning to Hamid. “Did Bertie like it?” Hamid smiles, clearly glad he’s gained an ally in whatever it is they’re talking about.

His nail polish is brassy instead of silver, but it still shines when he drums his nails on the table. “He said it was an excellent idea,” he announces proudly.

The bassist raises an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t Bertie also eat an entire pan of edibles that one time?” Hamid looks about to argue, but the man goes on, “And didn’t he also pawn some really valuable antique for a voucher card that expired two years before?” Hamid bites the inside of his cheek. The bassist nudges the violinist’s drink slightly, and Azu can make out the wing of a bird on his arm. (So she _did_ see feathers earlier.) “Sasha, help me out here, what other ‘excellent ideas’ has Bertie had?” 

Hamid drums his nails on the table slightly harder than before. He grumbles, “Thank you for the support, Zolf,” and the bassist (Zolf? That’s a very odd name) grins at him.

The violinist (Sasha, or maybe Satcha, seeing the other strange names in the group) hums. After a beat of consideration, she suggests, “Fucked one of the co-managers?” Grizzop makes a noise of disgust. Zolf bursts into laughter. Hamid sighs.

Azu figures that if she doesn’t chime in now, she never will. “Excuse me,” she says softly, and Sasha jumps and whirls around. Azu takes a step back and raises her hands in apology. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed your performance. I was wondering if you play other places?”

Sasha stares up at her and stammers, “Uh, nah, yeah, we, uh. Yeah. Yeah, we do gigs pretty much all over? I mean, when everyone can make it. And I guess sometimes when they can’t, like tonight, but like, usually, I just stand in the back and fiddle? So it does kind of mess with things, a bit. I’m Sasha, by the way, in case you were wondering, or anything.” At the last sentence, she twists even further in her seat and sticks out a hand to Azu. Azu smiles and takes a step closer to the table so she doesn’t have to contort quite so much.

“Azu,” she answers. Sasha’s hand is tiny and cold, slotting into Azu’s like it was meant to be there. Or maybe like Azu is attracted to her and unfamiliar physical contact is exhilarating.

Sasha gives her a thin-lipped smile and extracts her hand. She looks about to say something, but instead just nods. Someone else clears their throat, and Azu blinks herself out of the half-daydream she’d been falling into. “Well,” says Hamid, and Azu looks over at him. There’s a smile on his face that she’s fairly sure she recognises as _scheming._ “Would you like to sit down, Azu? There’s more than enough room!” It’s not true. Azu has to drag over a chair, and everyone has to scoot a bit away, but it isn’t too much trouble.

Everyone introduces themselves and Azu quietly informs them that she heard their names while they were arguing. Grizzop immediately pounces back on that conversation thread, and Azu is more than happy to sit back and let them talk, but she finds herself more involved than she usually is. “It’s a stupid name!” Grizzop announces. The man onstage looks up from his book, startled out of his poetry. Grizzop waves apologetically before leaning into his drink and hissing, significantly quieter, “It’s a stupid name!”

Hamid pouts. “There are far more ridiculous names,” he defends.

Azu asks, “What name is being suggested?”

“London’s Original Loudly Outstanding Music Group,” the band answers in unison. Hamid as though it’s a particularly well-executed passion project, Grizzop as though reciting something he’d rather not have memorised. Sasha and Zolf sound more bemused about it than anything else.

Azu thinks it over. After a beat of contemplation, she tentatively announces, “I like it. It’s a bit long, but I think—”

“It shortens to L.O.L.O.M.G.”

“Lolomg,” Grizzop says, and Azu’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to say it as though it’s an actual word.

“Lolomg,” Sasha repeats with a grin on her face, “yeah. Lolomg, lolomg, lolomg. ’S a weird name for a band.”

Azu frowns. “Ah,” she says, “I see.” (She doesn’t, but she’s not really going to ask. Every subject seems to have a million different branches with this group, and Azu has only mostly been following their conversation.) Hamid pouts harder. Someone taps on Azu’s shoulder, and there’s Emeka. “Oh, hello! Are you ready to go home?” Emeka nods. Azu smiles up at him and stands up from the table. “It was lovely to meet you all, but I need to take my brother home. Have a nice night!” She waves, and the table waves back.

Except for Sasha, who stumbles over a goodbye long after Azu is out of earshot.  
\---  
 **Hello? Who is this?**  
 _sasha from the cafe_  
 **When did you put your phone number in my pocket?**  
 _when u put ur arm around my seat_  
 _sorry_  
 **No, it’s alright! I’d rather it be you than someone who I didn’t even notice.**  
 _i was just wondering if maybe u wanted to come see us perform songs that hamid wrote_  
 _b/c hes pretty good at it and i get to stay in the back and actually fiddle instead of sing, which is alright_  
 **Oh, I’d love to! I’ve never heard someone play the violin as part of a band before; it sounds interesting!**  
 _yeah alright cheers_

Azu hesitates a moment before carefully tapping out,

**And besides, I’d like the chance to see you again.**

Sasha starts and stops typing several times, and suddenly there’s a weight on Azu’s right shoulder. “Are you texting a boy?” Azu holds her phone closer to her chest and turns to glare at her. Nkechi smirks. “Is it the fancy one Emeka saw you talking to?” Azu turns her phone off and frowns at her little sister.

“It’s not a boy,” she answers.

Nkechi’s sly smile only widens. “Is it the punk-rock girl who had the violin?” She yelps when Azu snags her by the back of the shirt and flips her over the back of the sofa. “I’m telling Dad you threw me!” Azu shifts, pins her to the cushions with her legs. “Azu,” Nkechi whines. Azu ignores her and looks at her messages.

 _i uh_  
 _yeah id like that too_  
\---  
Sasha, true to her word, is nearly unnoticeable at the back of the stage. The large man at the microphone is much more obvious. “Hello, everyone, welcome! To the best show you’re going to see today! Feel free to tip your servers, or don’t, it’s all fine!” Zolf gives the behemoth a deeply unimpressed look. Hamid taps at his elbow. “Hm?” Hamid says something. “But it’s really more of an optional thing, right?” Hamid explains something patiently. “Alright, alright, fine. Tip your servers, I guess.” The crowd laughs, clearly under the impression that this is some sort of persona that the singer (Bertie, as Sasha had groaned over the phone) puts on. Azu’s pretty certain it’s not. She doesn’t think she likes him.

The band seems more cohesive, here. Maybe because this is one of their ‘steady gigs’ as Sasha put it, where they always play, every Tuesday at least. “’S a great place,” she’d explained, “and I get discounts on account of my knowing the owner. It’s called the Bloody Bulldog, ’s the best pub I’ve been to in a while.” Azu had listened to Sasha’s voice crackle through the speaker of her phone with a smile on her face, quickly jotting the more important details down.

Azu takes another sip of her drink. It’s surprisingly good, considering how brightly coloured it is. Azu was expecting it to taste of chemicals, but it just tastes sweet. She’ll have to thank the (rather gruff) bartender for giving her such a good cocktail later. Bertie continues, “Also, the bass is going to be even worse than usual tonight! Just so you’re all aware!” Zolf looks positively _murderous._ He snaps something at Bertie, who nods sagely. “Mr Smith says it’s because the young lady got rosin on his strings, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s terrible.” 

Zolf cracks his knuckles.   
The crowd cheers.   
Azu rather hopes she’s not about to witness a murder. 

“Well, now that that’s over with. We’re the Rangers – we’re still working on the name – and this is—” he frowns and turns to the guitarist on his right— “Hamid, what’s this one called?” Hamid mumbles something indistinct. “Simulacrum! This is Simulacrum.” The audience cheers loudly; this must be one of their more popular ones. Bertie beams, and Azu can’t help a grin of her own from spreading across her face. Bertie turns over his shoulder and asks to the blackness at the back of the stage, “Young lady? If you would?” 

The audience goes quiet as Sasha begins to play. One long, high note, and then it… Azu doesn’t know how to describe it. It _twists,_ exploding into a melody that Grizzop accompanies by tapping his drumsticks together, faster and faster and faster, in a way that reminds Azu of someone running so quickly they almost fly. Sasha’s strings pick up, too, playing ever more rapidly, yet still distinctly and beautifully. 

The symbols crash so loudly it reverberates in Azu’s ears like auditory starbursts. Zolf and Hamid immediately join in, and Bertie sings along, and Azu doesn’t know how the song works so well with all of the different styles incorporated, but it _does._ Bertie’s voice rocks the foundations of the room; not a single thing about him is soft, especially not his volume. _“Metallurgic nervous system—”_ the violin shrieks like copper wiring— _“adamantine mechanism!”_

The audience shouts along to the chorus, but Sasha’s playing is so fantastic that Azu can barely even focus on the lyrics. She gets the melody just fine, and she crows it just as loudly as everyone surrounding her.

Grizzop stands up in his seat in order to reach across his drumset, a show-stopping solo dragging everyone into silence. Bang, bang, _crash,_ and Grizzop’s teeth refract the light just like his jewellery does when he bares his teeth in an ear-to-ear grin.

The pub erupts into applause at the end of the song. 

Azu applauds just as loudly, and for a brief second, she can see Sasha, stepping out into the light and scanning the crowd. Azu’s breath catches in her throat. Because Sasha looks _gorgeous,_ her hair spiked up, eyeliner chalked darkly around her eyes, her leather jacket stark black against Bertie’s white cardigan. Sasha spots her and gives a shy wave with her bowing hand, and Azu only just manages to wave back.

Azu’s going to have to become a regular at the Bloody Bulldog, isn’t she?  
\---  
“You were _amazing,”_ Azu gushes, and Sasha rubs awkwardly at the back of her neck. “How long have you been playing for?”

Sasha shrugs. “I mean, y’know. Just about forever. S’just sorta something you pick up, I guess.” They’re sat together in a booth at the back, blessedly unperturbed by the rowdier tavern-goers — another of the perks of knowing the owner, apparently. 

Grizzop and Hamid are arguing about something or other, voices slowly raising in pitch as they shout to be heard over the music. Zolf and Bertie are talking (without too much hatred, which Azu is more than a little surprised at) about some book or another. Azu has been slowly trying to move closer, making little excuses to touch Sasha. 

Azu is good at reading people, so she recognises the signs of cautiously testing the waters. Bad jokes, nervous stammering, touching. Except Hamid has a hand on her knee that Sasha doesn’t seem to mind, and she’s been telling jokes (puns, probably. Azu’s always had a hard time recognising those) with Grizzop, and she stammers whether she’s talking to a waiter or to Zolf. It takes a little over half an hour of conversation (aided by more Aphrodite’s Heart cocktails) for Azu to work up the courage to put a heavy arm around Sasha’s shoulders. 

Sasha tenses.

Azu is paralysed for a second, her brain shouting to pull back and apologise for reading things wrong. Before she can do that, Sasha relaxes, all the tightly-wound energy leaving her in a deep exhale. “Warn me, next time,” Sasha says, and then, “have you seen that video where someone makes a knife out of smoke?” Azu shakes her head, and Sasha grins, pulling her phone out to try and find it. She doesn’t move away from Azu for the rest of the night.  
\---  
 **I had fun! Do you do that every Tuesday?**  
 _i mean pretty much yeah_  
 _u being there was nice tho. usually its just hamids sister/zolfs brother/grizzops whatever-they-are so it was different_  
 **Good different?**  
 _yeah, Proper good different_  
 **(●´∀｀●)**  
 _pfffffft thats such a weird face whered u get that?_  
 **...if I say I spent fifteen minutes googling it, will you stop thinking I’m cool?**  
 _azu ive literally never thought u were cool_  
 _but i mean. yknow. i like having u around anyways._  
 _b/c u give me someone to talk to when everyone is busy. and ur nice to me. and. stuff._  
 **I like being around! Which is good, because I think Grizzop has adopted me…**  
 _???_  
 _explain?????????_  
 **Can we call?**  
 _yeah. ur storytelling doesnt translate over text. not enough dramatic gasping_  
\---  
Sasha has a butterfly knife. 

Azu discovers this when she comes over to their practice (Hamid described it as one half messing around with words and notes, another half rehearsal, and one entirety a reasonable excuse to get together and eat takeout) and finds Sasha sprawled across the dining room table, flipping something silver over and around her hand. Azu almost drops her cookies. “Oh dear,” Azu says, completely unbidden, and Sasha looks lazily over at her.

Still playing with a _sharp and dangerous knife,_ Sasha greets, “Alright, Azu.” Then her eyes land on the box in Azu’s hand, and she’s up in half a second, very close. “What’s this?”

Azu takes a moment to calm herself. “I made cookies. Do you like peanut butter?” Sasha’s face lights up. Azu’s always found her attractive, but Sasha’s prickly exterior disappears for half a moment, and Azu realises that she’s absolutely _adorable_ as well. Azu is just wondering how to keep herself from saying so (biting her tongue, probably) when Sasha snatches the entire box from her. “Sasha, I brought those to share.” Sasha nods solemnly.

She then proceeds to begin shovelling peanut-butter cookies into her mouth. Azu makes an exasperated scolding noise, and Sasha grins at her, mouth stuffed full with crumbs. “Sharing with me, and myself, and I,” Sasha garbles, and Azu holds her hands up in something like desperation. “Learned that from Bertie,” Sasha mumbles, turning her face back down to the box.

Azu sighs.  
\---  
Bertie pulls the microphone closer to him and announces, “Everyone’s favourite cheerful song, Catacombs!” The crowd around her gives scattered peals of laughter and smatterings of applause.

Azu quickly understands why the crowd laughed. The song is horrifying, haunting, hitching up Azu’s pulse in terror. She doesn’t know how Sasha so accurately manages to convey _trapped beneath miles of earth with no one coming to help,_ but she does. _“Something pure malicious,”_ and Bertie’s voice is quiet, for once, which only adds to the creeping fear provided by Hamid’s lyrics, _“and you listened to it scream.”_ Grizzop plays with an electronic drumset for this song, and the shifting effects that make his drums waver in from one side and then the other add so much ambience that Azu finds herself leant against the alley wall, breathing in the cold night air.

Something touches her elbow and Azu gasps and jerks away. “It’s me,” Sasha says, “you alright?”

Azu keeps breathing. Wind whips at the back of her head, which is good, because it reminds her that she isn’t being crushed. “I’m fine. Thank you, Sasha.” Sasha carefully puts her hand back on Azu’s arm. And Azu doesn’t mean to say it, but, “Your songs certainly have interesting premises.” Sasha nods. 

“Lyd’s a zombie,” Sasha responds thoughtfully, and Azu turns to stare. “My character. In the songs. Her name’s Lydia. She’s a zombie. And she can talk to people, kinda, ‘cause even a zombie that goes around bleeding every day is better with people than I am.” Azu laughs despite herself, only stopping when she realises that it might hurt Sasha’s feelings.

Sasha seems fine. Relieved, even. Azu asks, “Does everyone have characters?” Sasha nods. Her hand is still on the arm that isn’t pressed into the brick wall, but it feels steadying instead of crushing.

She says, “I mean, Grizzop doesn’t. He says it’s stupid, so we just lumped him in with Zolf’s ‘cause Zolf was the only one didn’t mind sharing.” Azu smiles. Sasha talks about the assorted characters and the various steampunk-horror situations they find themselves in. It’s nice. Background noise as Azu slowly calms down and stops feeling like the world is going to collapse on top of her. “And then, down to nothing, right? But! Lyd comes in, and she just! Stabs him right up! Like, real, proper stabbing, not the dinky kinda stabbing you see on the streets here, I’m talking _prime_ stabbing, with a really cool knife, and the bloke just—” Sasha makes a very grotesque squealing noise— “and _died._ It was brilliant. Hamid didn’t write that bit in, because he was more focused on his little lizard boy, but it’s whatever. _I_ know it happened.” Azu laughs softly, and Sasha looks up. “What?”

Sasha’s face is lit starkly, the single bulb above them in the alley leaving everything else in shadow. Like a spotlight.

“Nothing,” says Azu, “just… thank you.” 

Sasha swallows, and Azu notices how close they are. Sasha still has a hand on her arm, and in an effort to get out of the wind, she’s gotten closer, fitting her form to Azu’s silhouette. “I-I. Yeah,” Sasha stammers, but the space between them doesn’t increase. “You could. Uh, I mean, you could probably get a character, too if you wanted. Hamid’s writing the third album right now, you could show up in steampunk Cairo? Or something? Grizzop said something about you two being percussion pals, so that’s– that’s like. A thing.”

Azu bites her lip as she thinks. “Thank you for the offer,” she says after a long moment, and her voice is quiet, for once, low enough that it doesn’t reverberate around the squat brick buildings surrounding her, “but I would miss getting to see you perform.” Sasha nods, and Azu didn’t see her move, but she’s pretty sure that the violinist is closer than she was a moment before. Azu starts to reach out, to take Sasha’s face in her hand, but Sasha told her to ask. “Is it alright if I kiss you?” Sasha’s mouth opens as if to say something, but the only thing that comes out is slightly breathless stuttering.

Azu waits. 

“Yeah,” Sasha manages after a bit, “alright, that works.” Azu smiles, and Sasha puts a hand on her shoulder to steady herself, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss Azu quickly. She drops back down almost immediately, looking at her with panic in her eyes. “Is- uh. That’s okay?” Azu nods once, and Sasha nods back, significantly more jittery. “Right. Yeah, um, I was just, like, I was gonna– ‘cause I mean—” she squints her eyes shut, mumbles something under her breath— “is it alright if I do that again?” Sasha has one hand on Azu’s shoulder and the other hovering nervously a few inches away from her waist.

Azu laughs. It’s more than alright, and Azu can’t believe this is happening. Sasha starts to move away; Azu assures her, “I would very much like that.” Sasha stares up at her before sighing in relief, something two shades off from a smile on her face as she rocks up onto the balls of her feet and kisses Azu again.

Sasha tastes like energy drinks and peppermint gum, and she’s so thin and cold where she’s pressed against Azu. Azu carefully telegraphs what she does, letting her hand hover for a moment before settling it on Sasha’s back and pulling her closer. Sasha breaks the kiss, but she doesn’t move back from where she’s held in Azu’s arms. She cocks her head, listening, before scrabbling backwards and hurriedly reaching into her pocket. The door to the alley opens just as Sasha lights her cigarette, immediately shoving the carton and the lighter into her jacket pocket.

Zolf leans out and says, “Sasha – oh, hey Azu – we’re doing Mr Ceiling in five minutes. Finish your smoke break.” Azu waves silently, not entirely trusting her voice. Zolf squints at her for a moment, then squinting at Sasha. Sasha nods at him, clearly attempting to get him to leave, and takes a drag. Zolf shrugs, turns around, suggests, “Maybe wipe Azu’s lipstick off your mouth before you come back inside,” over his shoulder, and then the door slams shut.  
\---  
The party is saved from a sandstorm by a priest named Helen, who is introduced by way of Azu adding in sound effects from her old electronic keyboard. She has enough vague memory of piano lessons to play some of the more simple melodies, but she mostly sticks to adding percussion.

Besides, being able to clearly see her girlfriend, onstage, only a few feet away, makes anything more complex stammer to a halt.

**Author's Note:**

> ANYWAY they're great and i love them. hmu on tumblr @roswyrm i accept love and also prompts!!!! flattery will get u everywhere, so if u want me to write a thing, that's the route to go.


End file.
